The training grounds of the Royal Academy of Arcane Arts sprawled beneath a pale morning sky, painted in hues of lavender and amber as dawn crept across the horizon. Mist clung to the sand-filled pits where students honed their skills, dissipating slowly as the sun's rays strengthened. The air vibrated with the sharp tang of steel meeting steel and the earthy scent of sweat, punctuated by the rhythmic clangs of practice swords and the faint, musical hum of mana from spells cast in distant arenas. Occasional flashes of blue and purple light burst from the eastern quadrants where mages practiced their arts, drawing scattered applause or gasps from onlookers.
Aaron Valeria stood at the edge of a central pit, his gray cloak—bearing House Valeria's golden stag embroidered with threads that caught the light like actual gold—stirring in the cool breeze. The fabric was fine-woven, a subtle statement of his family's wealth and status that set him apart from lesser nobles whose cloaks hung heavier, made of coarser materials. His practice sword, blunt but weighty, hung loosely in his hand, its balance familiar against his callused palm. The hilt bore tiny nicks and scratches, testament to countless hours of training that had transformed it from a mere tool into an extension of himself.
At nineteen, Aaron's sharp features and steel-gray eyes gave him the look of a noble born to command; high cheekbones framed by dark hair that fell in casual waves to his collar, defying the more severe styles favored by many of his peers. His face remained composed, almost serene, betraying nothing of the calculations racing through his mind. For behind those eyes lived memories of another existence; a physicist from Earth, 2200, where he'd once unraveled the mechanics of a Type 1 civilization before corporate powers silenced him.
Across the pit, Gareth Ryde adjusted his stance, his broad frame taut with anticipation. Sunlight glinted off the metal studs on his leather armor, well-worn but meticulously maintained, each piece bearing small symbols of his house's modest crest—a fox beneath three stars. A thin scar traced his jawline, barely visible against his tanned skin, a souvenir from a tournament gone wrong in his youth. His dark eyes locked onto Aaron, burning with a mix of challenge and determination, while his right hand flexed around the hilt of his sword, a nervous habit he'd never quite overcome.
"Ready to lose, Valeria?" Gareth called, his voice carrying a playful edge that failed to mask the hunger beneath. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he shifted his weight forward, eager to begin.
A small crowd of students gathered around the pit, their cloaks, emblazoned with crests of the eight noble houses—fluttering in the morning breeze. The colors formed a tapestry against the training ground's dusty backdrop: the crimson and gold of House Aurelius, the azure and silver of House Valtor, the midnight black and silver threads of House Shadowmere. They whispered among themselves, coin occasionally changing hands as bets were placed.
"Three silver marks on Valeria," muttered a girl wearing Valtor's waves.
"Fool's bet," replied her companion. "Everyone knows how this ends."
Aaron raised his sword, the steel catching a glint of sunlight that traced a momentary golden arc through the air. His lips curved into a faint smirk, barely noticeable but enough to make Gareth's nostrils flare.
"Only if you've learned to move faster than last time, Ryde." His tone was calm, almost lazy, but his mind churned with the precision of the physicist he once was, mapping Gareth's likely first strike, calculating angles and momentum as if the human body were merely an object bound by immutable laws of motion.
Gareth's eyes narrowed at the taunt. He inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring, and lunged forward with surprising speed for his size. His sword sliced downward in a diagonal arc aimed at Aaron's shoulder, the blade whistling through the air. The move was swift, fueled by raw strength that would have cleaved armor had the blade been sharpened, but Aaron had anticipated it before Gareth's muscles had even tensed to move.
He stepped left, angling his body to shrink his silhouette by a precise thirty degrees, and parried with a flick of his wrist that seemed almost casual to observers but was calculated to the millimeter. The blades met with a dull clang that echoed across the training ground, the force vibrating through Aaron's arm like a tuning fork. Rather than opposing Gareth's strength directly, he redirected the momentum, letting the larger boy's swing carry him slightly off-balance.
Gareth stumbled, his boots scuffing the sand and leaving deep grooves that marked his passage. He recovered with a grunt, pivoting back to face Aaron. A thin sheen of sweat already glistened on his brow despite the cool morning air, and his eyes narrowed as he reassessed his opponent.
"Slippery," Gareth muttered, a grudging grin flashing across his face as he adjusted his grip on his sword, knuckles whitening. "Won't be so lucky next time."
Aaron didn't respond, circling slowly, his steps light as a dancer's. His boots barely disturbed the sand, leaving faint impressions compared to Gareth's deep footprints. His eyes tracked Gareth's weight shift, the subtle twitch of his shoulder telegraphing his next move like a scholar reading an open book.
In his past life, he'd trusted too easily—colleagues, corporations, ideals—only to feel the sting of betrayal when a needle pierced his neck, ending his existence as a whistleblower who'd uncovered corporate secrets. Reborn as Aaron Valeria, he had sworn never to be a pawn again. His knowledge of physics was his edge, a secret he kept locked behind a noble's poise. He would reveal it only when he held real power, not as a second son caught in the empire's games.
From the sidelines, Cedric Tarly's voice cut through the crowd's murmurs. "Come on, Gareth! Don't let a bookworm outshine you!" The third son of a viscount leaned against a wooden post carved with the symbols of past dueling champions, his green cloak thrown back to reveal a tailored tunic of the latest fashion, embroidered with subtle patterns that shifted in the light.
Cedric's auburn hair gleamed like burnished copper in the sunlight, carefully styled to appear carelessly tousled, and his grin—practiced to perfection before many mirrors—drew giggles from a cluster of students. Mostly girls hovered nearby, their eyes following his every movement as they whispered behind their hands. A small ruby earring dangled from his left ear, marking him as a member of the Academy's exclusive Literary Society, though rumors suggested he'd joined solely for access to the society's private gatherings rather than any love of poetry.
Elias Vorne sat cross-legged on the grass a few paces away, the blades around him crushed from hours of stillness. His lanky frame hunched over a leather-bound notebook whose pages were filled with diagrams that seemed to move when viewed from certain angles. His quill scratched furiously across the parchment, leaving trails of ink that dried with a faint blue glow—sketching mana flow diagrams that only a handful of students at the Academy could comprehend.
His hazel eyes, flecked with gold that caught the morning light, flicked up only occasionally to watch the spar, his long fingers stained with ink of various colors. The second son of a baron, Elias existed in his own world, muttering equations under his breath that occasionally caused nearby starvines to pulse with sympathetic energy. A stray lock of sandy hair fell into his face, obscuring a small burn scar at his temple—evidence of an experiment gone wrong in his early days at the Academy.
"The momentum transfer is inefficient," he muttered to himself, marking something in his notebook. "Mana could stabilize the vector if properly channeled through the blade's fuller..."
Gareth attacked again, this time feinting low before swinging upward in a move that would have disemboweled an opponent in real combat. Aaron read the feint as clearly as if Gareth had announced his intentions, his mind calculating the larger boy's center of mass and the arc his blade must follow. He sidestepped with precise timing, the blade whistling past close enough that he felt the air displace against his cheek, and countered with a quick tap to Gareth's forearm.
The blunt sword struck with enough force to leave a bruise even through the leather armor. Gareth hissed, a sound like steam escaping a kettle, and retreated a step, his grip tightening on his sword. A red mark began to form where Aaron's blow had landed, sure to darken into a purple bruise by evening.
The crowd's murmurs swelled, some cheering, others exchanging disappointed looks as coin changed hands. Aaron's eyes caught a student in a black-and-silver cloak—House Shadowmere—watching with a scowl that twisted his pale face. The crest on his cloak—a raven clasping a crescent moon—marked him as one of Darius's inner circle, no doubt gathering fodder for their master's schemes. The student made a small gesture toward Aaron, three fingers drawn across his chest in what might have been a warding sign.
"You're not even sweating," Gareth growled, though his eyes glinted with reluctant respect. Droplets trickled down his own temples, darkening his collar where they fell. "Always the perfect noble, aren't you, Valeria?"
Aaron's expression remained neutral, though his mind registered the bitter edge in Gareth's voice—a commoner's son, always fighting for recognition in a world that valued bloodlines over merit. A weakness, perhaps, or a strength Aaron could harness.
Gareth charged again, his boots kicking up sand as he accelerated, his sword sweeping in a wide horizontal arc that would have cleaved Aaron in two had it connected. The blow carried Gareth's frustration, his need to prove himself. Aaron calculated the force behind it—impressive but predictable—and ducked with fluid grace, feeling the air shift above his head where his skull had been a moment before.
He thrust toward Gareth's ribs, his blow measured to teach rather than humiliate. The blunt blade thudded against leather with an impact that echoed across the pit. Gareth staggered backward, his breath escaping in a sharp, pained gasp that revealed the force of the strike. His free hand instinctively clutched his side, checking for damage.
Aaron stepped back, his expression unreadable behind a mask of noble composure. He could end the spar now—Gareth's defense was full of openings a child could exploit—but he let the larger boy recover, testing his resilience and determination. The crowd's eyes bore into him, their whispers a mix of admiration and envy that prickled against his consciousness.
Aaron's senses sharpened, noting the divisions among them as clearly as battle lines drawn on sand. Students wearing House Aurelius's iron hawk badges stood together, their postures rigid, militaristic, their eyes scanning the grounds like soldiers assessing terrain. Their cloaks were fastened with iron clasps shaped like talons, and many bore the calluses and scars of weapons training that went beyond Academy requirements.
House Valtor's blue wave crests marked another group, their whispers low as they observed the match with calculating eyes. Gold rings adorned their fingers, and their boots were of finer leather than most—merchants' children playing at being warriors while their minds remained on profit margins and trade routes.
House Shadowmere lingered at the edges, their presence subtle but ominous as shadows at midday. Their black cloaks seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, and their silver emblems caught no glint from the sun. They moved with careful precision, watching everything while appearing to watch nothing.
The academy was more than a school—it was a microcosm of the Aetherian Empire itself, its students aligning with the three princes vying for the throne. The civil war's undertone wasn't just rumor—it was a fracture waiting to split the empire apart, and these children of nobility were its first soldiers, choosing sides before the conflict had even been declared.
Cedric's voice rang out again, cutting through Aaron's observations. "Aaron, stop playing with him! Finish it or I'll bet against you next time!" The crowd laughed, tension breaking, and Cedric flashed a wink at a noble girl whose cheeks reddened beneath the crest of House Valtor. She whispered something to her friends, their giggles rippling through the air like stones cast in still water.
Elias glanced up from his notebook, his brow furrowing as he observed the match through the lens of his arcane calculations. "This is pointless," he muttered, his quill pausing mid-stroke, leaving a droplet of blue-black ink to expand on the parchment. "Mana's more predictable than swords. The energy expenditure alone makes physical combat inefficient for anyone with magical ability."
He returned to his sketches, tracing patterns that mirrored the movements of the sparring pair, translating physical motion into magical theory with a mind that few at the Academy could match. His fingers moved with precise, economical movements, each stroke purposeful in a way that matched Aaron's swordplay.
Aaron ignored the commentary, his focus locked on Gareth with the intensity of a predator. The boy's attacks were growing desperate, his breathing labored, his swings wider and less controlled as fatigue and frustration took their toll. Sweat darkened his tunic beneath his armor, and a vein pulsed visibly at his temple.
Aaron saw the opening—a slight overextension in Gareth's next strike that left his throat exposed for 1.3 seconds, more than enough time. He stepped inside the arc of the larger boy's swing, his sword flashing up to rest lightly against Gareth's throat, the blunt edge pressing just firmly enough to be felt without causing pain. The crowd fell silent, the only sound Gareth's ragged breathing and the distant clang of steel from other sparring matches.
"Yield?" Aaron's voice was soft, but it carried an edge of finality that left no room for argument. His eyes met Gareth's, acknowledging the effort while making the outcome clear.
Gareth's eyes blazed with momentary defiance, but he lowered his sword, the tension in his shoulders releasing as he accepted defeat. A wry grin broke through his frustration, transforming his face from challenger to comrade.
"You're impossible, Valeria. One day I'll figure out how you do it."
Aaron stepped back, sheathing his blade with a smooth motion that spoke of years of practice. "Work on your footwork. You're giving away every move before you make it." The crowd erupted in scattered applause, some genuine, others grudging as more coins changed hands. Aaron barely acknowledged it, his mind already shifting to the broader game being played around them.
The factions he'd noted weren't just students showing house pride—they were choosing sides in a silent war that would soon engulf the empire. House Aurelius, with their military heritage and disciplined bearing, likely backed the first prince, the emperor's eldest son whose claim was strongest but whose temperament was said to be as rigid as the iron they wore. House Valtor, their wealth tied to trade routes that spanned the empire, leaned toward the second prince, whose promises of expanded commerce appealed to their mercantile instincts.
And House Shadowmere, under Darius's influence, was a threat Aaron couldn't yet pin down—their allegiance as shadowy as their reputation, their power derived from secrets rather than swords or gold.
Cedric bounded over, his movement graceful despite his apparent nonchalance, and clapped Aaron on the shoulder with a familiarity few would dare. "Not bad for a duke's spare," he said, his voice carrying just enough to be heard by nearby students. "You made Gareth look like a charging boar facing a master hunter."
"Watch it, Tarly," Gareth shot back, but his tone was light, accepting the jest as the price of defeat. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his dark hair plastered to his forehead in damp curls. "I'll take you next, see how your pretty face holds up against someone who doesn't mind marking it."
Cedric laughed, the sound genuine despite its performative quality, and dodged a playful shove from Gareth. "Pass. My face is too valuable for bruises. The ladies of House Valtor would never forgive you." He gestured toward the group of giggling girls, who had moved closer now that the spar had ended.
Elias closed his notebook with a snap that sent a small pulse of mana rippling outward, causing nearby starvines to glow momentarily brighter. He stood with a stretch, his joints popping audibly after sitting motionless for so long.
"Aaron, that last pivot—was it calculated? The angle of deflection was precisely thirty-seven degrees, which maximizes energy conservation while minimizing your exposed area. It looked... too precise for instinct." His hazel eyes narrowed, curiosity glinting in their depths like the mana-infused ink that stained his fingers.
Aaron's lips twitched, but he kept his expression neutral, guard rising instinctively. Elias was too sharp, his questions too close to the truth that Aaron guarded more carefully than any noble secret. "Just instinct," he said, brushing past the inquiry with practiced ease. "Some things become natural with enough practice."
He wouldn't let anyone glimpse the Earth-born knowledge that shaped his every move, not even Elias with his brilliant mind and seemingly innocent questions. In this world of houses and hierarchies, such knowledge was power—and power was something Aaron intended to accumulate, not share.
A shadow fell over the group, and Aaron turned to see Master Thorne striding toward them. The swordsmanship instructor was a grizzled man whose face bore scars that told stories of battles long past, each one a lesson written in flesh. His right ear was notched where a blade had nearly taken it, and three parallel scars crossed his left cheek like claw marks. His House Aurelius badge glinted on his chest, prominently displayed despite years of service to the Academy—a statement of allegiance that many students noted.
His presence silenced the nearby students, their conversations dying away like candle flames in a sudden draft. Even Cedric's easy grin faded as the master approached, his steps heavy with purpose.
"Valeria," Thorne rumbled, his voice like gravel grinding against stone, shaped by years of shouting orders across battlefields. "Your technique is sharp. You read Ryde like a scroll left open in sunlight." His dark eyes narrowed, pinning Aaron in place with the intensity of a hawk sighting prey. "But don't let it swell your head. Arrogance gets men killed faster than poor swordsmanship."
Aaron met Thorne's gaze without flinching, his face a mask of calm deference that revealed nothing of his inner thoughts. "I'll keep that in mind, Master." The proper response, the expected words from student to teacher.
Inside, he bristled—not at the warning itself, which held wisdom, but at the assumption he needed it. Arrogance wasn't his flaw; caution was his shield, forged in the fire of a previous life's betrayal. In his past life, he'd trusted too easily—colleagues, corporations, ideals—only to be silenced when he uncovered their secrets. A needle in his neck had taught him the price of naivety. Reborn as Aaron Valeria, he swore he'd never be a pawn again, never trust blindly, never reveal his true capabilities until the moment was right.
Thorne turned to Gareth, his expression softening slightly, the way a commander might regard a promising recruit. "Ryde, you've got fire in your belly, but fire needs control to forge steel rather than just make smoke. Train smarter, not just harder. Channel that strength with purpose." He clapped Gareth's shoulder, the impact heavy enough to make the larger boy wince despite his armor, then strode off to bark orders at another pair of sparring students whose form had slackened during the spectacle.
Gareth's jaw tightened at the critique, a muscle working beneath the skin, but he nodded, his eyes fixed on the sand as if reading futures in its patterns. Aaron watched him, noting the way his fingers flexed around his sword hilt, the faint slump in his shoulders that spoke of more than physical fatigue.
There was a story behind Gareth's drive, something deeper than the thrill of combat or the desire for Academy honors. Aaron needed to know it—not out of sentiment or friendship, though those might serve as cover—but because knowledge was power, and loyalty was a tool. Gareth's could be forged into something strong, an alliance that transcended the usual noble games.
"Let's walk," Aaron said, his tone casual but deliberate as he sheathed his practice sword. He gestured toward the edge of the training grounds, where stone benches lined a garden of starvines, their petals glowing with faint blue-white light even in daylight, pulsing gently in rhythm with the mana currents that flowed beneath the Academy grounds.
The air there carried the scent of earth and steel mingled with the sweet, slightly metallic fragrance of the starvines—a reminder of the magic that underpinned their world and the violence that shaped it. The blossoms were said to grow most vibrantly where blood had been spilled in ancient battles, feeding on the residual energy of life and death.
Gareth hesitated, wariness flickering across his features, then followed, his boots scuffing the sand as he fell into step beside Aaron. Cedric and Elias trailed behind, the former regaling the latter with exaggerated tales of his latest social conquests among the noble girls, his hands gesturing dramatically as he described a midnight rendezvous in the Academy's eastern gardens.
"And then—you won't believe this—she had brought her father's signet ring as proof of her intentions! Can you imagine? As if I'm looking to be betrothed before graduation!" Cedric's laughter rang out, drawing glances from passersby.
Elias nodded absently, his mind clearly elsewhere as his fingers traced patterns in the air, leaving faint blue afterimages that dissipated like smoke. "Fascinating," he murmured, though whether in response to Cedric's tale or some internal calculation was unclear. "The emotional energies involved in courtship rituals could potentially be harnessed for certain types of empathic magic..."
Aaron slowed his pace, letting the others pull ahead until he and Gareth were alone by the benches, outside of casual earshot. A starvine near them pulsed more brightly as they approached, responding to the residual energy of their spar or perhaps to the intensity of purpose that Aaron carried within him.
"You fought well," Aaron said, leaning against a bench carved from green-veined marble, his cloak pooling around him like liquid shadow. "But you're holding something back. What is it?" Direct, but not unkind probe designed to elicit truth.
Gareth's eyes flicked to the ground, his knuckles whitening around his sword hilt as if drawing strength from the weapon. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant clang of steel and the rustle of starvines in the breeze, their glow intensifying and dimming in patterns that some said could predict the future for those who knew how to read them.
Finally, he spoke, his voice low, almost reluctant, as if the words were being pulled from some deep, protected place. "It's for my mother."
Aaron raised an eyebrow but stayed silent, letting the confession unfold at its own pace. Patience was a weapon as surely as any sword, and often more effective.
"She was lowborn," Gareth continued, his gaze distant, fixed on the horizon where the Academy's spires pierced the sky like blades thrust into the heavens. "A seamstress in the river quarter of Aurelian City. My father met her when he commissioned festival garments—he said he fell in love with her hands first, how they moved like water over cloth."
Gareth's voice softened at the memory, his usual gruffness giving way to something more vulnerable. "He married her despite his family's protests. They never accepted her, called her a stain on their name, tried to have the marriage annulled. Some even suggested poison." His jaw tightened. "She died when I was ten—a fever, they said, but she'd never been sick before the family feast that autumn."
He ran a hand through his damp hair, leaving it standing in spikes. "She always told me I could be more than my blood, that the Academy would see my skill, not my ancestry. A master swordsman, maybe even a knight someday." He laughed, a bitter sound that startled a nearby starvine into flaring brightly. "Foolish, right? A lesser noble with common blood, aiming that high."
Aaron's expression didn't change, but his mind turned over the information like a gem inspected for flaws. Gareth's ambition was a rebellion against the hierarchy that bound them all—a hierarchy Aaron intended to use but never fully trust. In his past life, he'd fought to rise in a corporate world that saw him as expendable, only to be crushed when he challenged its secrets. Gareth's dream was a lever, one Aaron could use to bind him closer while serving his own ends.
"It's not foolish," Aaron said, his voice steady, carrying the weight of conviction. "You've got the skill." He straightened from the bench, facing Gareth directly. "You just need to sharpen it. Focus on precision, not just strength. Your power is wasted if it can't find its target."
Gareth looked at him, surprise flickering in his eyes like the light of the starvines, as if he'd expected scorn rather than strategy. "You think I can do it?"
"I wouldn't waste my time sparring with you if I didn't," Aaron replied, his tone matter-of-fact, neither warm nor cold but honest in a way few nobles ever were. He pushed off the bench, brushing sand from his cloak with a precise movement. "Keep training. You'll make her proud."
Gareth's grin returned, softer but genuine, reaching his eyes for the first time that morning. "Thanks, Aaron." The words were simple but carried weight—a pledge of loyalty that would prove more valuable than gold in the days to come.
Gareth's POV
Gareth's arm ached as he followed Aaron back toward the others, the weight of his sword a steady anchor at his side. The bruise where Aaron's practice blade had struck was already darkening, another mark to add to his collection. His mother had once counted his bruises like stars, telling him each one was a lesson written on his skin.
The spar had been brutal—not in blows, but in how effortlessly Aaron had dismantled him. Every move Gareth made, Aaron was already there, his blade snapping into place like he'd seen the future, like the whole fight was a dance Aaron had rehearsed a hundred times while Gareth improvised blindfolded.
It wasn't just skill; it was something else, something Gareth couldn't name but felt in his bones. Aaron fought like he was solving a puzzle, not just swinging a sword—each movement precise, each counter perfectly timed. It frustrated him to be read so easily, but it also lit a fire in his chest that burned hotter than his fatigue. He wanted to match that precision, to prove he could stand beside a Valeria as an equal, not just follow in his shadow.
His mother's voice echoed in his mind, as it always did after a loss. You're stronger than they think, Gareth. Show them. She'd believed in him, even when his father's family sneered at her common blood, their words cutting deeper than any blade. She'd sewn his first practice tunic herself, embroidering a small fox—his house crest—over the heart, telling him to be clever and quick like the creature.
Aaron's words at the bench had hit him hard, not because they were kind—Aaron Valeria was never simply kind—but because they were honest. You'll make her proud. Coming from Aaron, a noble born to power and privilege, the second son of a duke whose bloodline stretched back to the empire's founding, it carried weight that no empty platitude could match.
As they rejoined Cedric and Elias, Gareth glanced across the training grounds with new eyes. The other students were still sparring, blades flashing in the strengthening sunlight, but he noticed the divisions now with a clarity that had escaped him before. House Aurelius students stood together, their iron hawk badges gleaming like a challenge, their movements disciplined and martial. House Valtor's group kept their distance, their whispers low, their blue wave crests catching the light as they discussed matters that had nothing to do with swordplay and everything to do with power.
And there, by the far pit, a Shadowmere student watched Aaron, his gaze sharp and cold as winter frost. Gareth's hand tightened on his sword hilt, a protective instinct rising that surprised him with its intensity. The academy was a battlefield of alliances and secrets, and Aaron Valeria was walking straight into its heart, eyes wide open but shoulders unbowed.
Gareth would be there beside him, he decided. Not just as a sparring partner, but as a shield if needed. He owed his mother that much—to find a purpose worthy of her belief in him. And perhaps, in Aaron's shadow, he would find that purpose and forge it into something as strong and unyielding as Valerian steel.
Aaron's POV
Aaron rejoined his friends, his mind cataloging the morning's events with methodical precision. Gareth's confession had been a gift, a thread to tie the boy closer to Aaron's cause. Loyalty born of shared purpose was stronger than fear or gold, and Gareth's was worth cultivating—a shield that would not break when tested, unlike so many noble alliances forged in convenience rather than conviction.
Cedric's voice filled the air, spinning tales of tournament bets and noble gossip that served as perfect cover for Aaron's observations. The viscount's son played the role of careless noble youth with practiced ease, but Aaron had noted the sharp intelligence behind his laughing eyes, the way his stories always elicited exactly the reaction he sought. Cedric was a player in his own right, using charm as his weapon where others used steel or magic.
Aaron's attention drifted to the students around them, classified and categorized according to their allegiances. The factions were stark now—House Aurelius, rigid and militaristic, their training focused on battle magic and weapons, likely backing the first prince whose military ambitions were well-known; House Valtor, calculating and wealthy, their fingers adorned with enchanted rings that marked their status among merchant princes, aligned with the second prince whose promises of expanded trade routes would fill their coffers; House Shadowmere, elusive and dangerous, their magic drawing on sources the Academy officially frowned upon, a threat Aaron couldn't yet pin down but must not underestimate.
Cedric's words cut through his thoughts, sharp as a blade. "Word is, the third prince is coming for the tournament. Lysander himself." He lowered his voice, drawing the others closer with conspiratorial glee. "Big chance to catch his eye, make connections beyond the Academy walls."
Aaron's eyes narrowed, calculating implications. Prince Lysander, the youngest of the emperor's sons, was known more for his charm than his combat prowess or magical ability, his reputation for collecting talented individuals into his personal circle extending throughout the empire. His visit was more than a ceremonial gesture—it was a move in the game of succession that had already claimed victims, Aaron's poisoned brother among them.
The princes' rivalry was fracturing the empire along lines of power and ideology, and the Academy—with its concentration of noble heirs and magical talent—was its perfect stage. Aaron's brother's poisoning, a shadow that never left his thoughts, felt tied to the succession struggle, though he had no proof. Not yet.
"Scouting allies, more like," Aaron said, his voice low enough that only his immediate circle could hear. "We stay clear of it. For now." The tournament would be a proving ground, but also a trap for the unwary who declared allegiance too soon.
Elias looked up from his notebook, his quill pausing mid-calculation, leaving a smudge of luminous ink on his thumb. "Neutrality's dangerous, Aaron. House Valeria's too big to sit out the game for long. Even inaction is interpreted as a statement." His eyes reflected the glow of recent magic use, tiny motes of light swirling in their depths.
"Let them play their games," Aaron replied, his tone final, brooking no argument. He wouldn't be drawn into the princes' schemes, not until he held cards they couldn't see and pieces they couldn't move. As a second son, he was theoretically a piece on the board, vulnerable and limited—but with his reborn knowledge and careful planning, he could become a player that none of them anticipated.
The training grounds were thinning now, students drifting toward classes or meals as the morning advanced. Aaron's group moved toward the Academy's main hall, a structure of white marble veined with gold that housed the classrooms where theory was taught alongside practical applications of magic and politics. The steps were cool underfoot, worn smooth by generations of noble boots climbing toward knowledge and power.
The air carried the scent of starvines and steel, of ancient books and new ambitions, a reminder of the world they navigated—beautiful but deadly to the unwary. Gareth walked with a new purpose beside Aaron, his sword sheathed but his spirit unbroken, his eyes scanning the surroundings with greater awareness than before. Cedric's laughter drew smiles from passersby, a social lubricant that eased their group's passage through the crowded corridors. Elias clutched his notebook to his chest, lost in his sketches and calculations, occasionally muttering formulas that made nearby enchanted fixtures flicker.
And Aaron, at the center, kept his eyes forward, his mind a fortress of plans and secrets built upon foundations from another world. The tournament loomed ahead, and with it, Prince Lysander's arrival a catalyst that would accelerate the Empire's slow descent into conflict.